Freedom
by Zalein
Summary: [Star Fox 64] A oneshot showing the StarFox team during the game's creditsscenes.


_Author's note: This takes place during the game's ending scenes. I had finally gotten a hold of the game for the first time in years, and I typed this out during the final credits (in spite of any other projects I may have already had on my plate.) It was actually originally two drabbles, but they were small enough that they melded into one early on._

_It was fun to write._

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The pilot's controls weren't in Fox's hands; the controls were a part of them, just as this ship was a part of him. He could feel the engine his seat was leaning against humming rhythmically, as though it were the ship's pulse. He could somehow sense, even in the silence of space, when the ship's wings adjusted themselves, whether it was to direct the high-energy propulsion units or to open the wings to accommodate for atmospheric interference. He'd tried years ago to explain what the subtle shifts in engine tone and fluctuations told him, but only his father had understood him. Only his amazed father had been able to agree and describe the sort of things his son had heard every time the small vessel shuddered gracefully to slip into a gentle roll, how the world seemed to fall away every time the engines' humming escalated with fierce howls of joy during steep changes in altitude, how his blood had shrilled in his ears with giddy excitement every time he completed complex maneuvers that would have left rookies and seasoned flight instructors alike gaping in bewilderment. The ship was an extension of his own, depressingly gravity-bound body; flying was a part of Fox's reflexes as much as it had been in his father's. It was in their blood.

Corneria's Headquarters had never been able to persuade his father to join Corneria's Army. With skills such as James', the fox would have undoubtedly risen quickly through the ranks, but every time he had been requested to join he had turned it down. His son had followed closely in his footsteps; Fox knew that his wings and those of his crew would be clipped if he joined just as much as his father had. A chain and leash would be tied, and his father would do as many barrel rolls in his grave as Peppy had bawled for Fox to take during their last mission.

Fox's legs pumped, and his booted paws crunched the dirt and gravel as he sped across the barren lot away from a building that housed some of the most prestigious and high-ranking persons on this continent in Corneria. Guards and soldiers milled around the sleek, white building's doors to watch in poorly concealed bewilderment as the Star Fox team departed. Why, when the group had been offered opportunities older fighters would practically drool over, would the four leave? And in such an ungainly hurry, no less!

Falco, by far the most physically fit of the four, was jogging almost leisurely just off to one side of Fox, and perhaps a little big behind. The unspoken message was clear: he could run faster if he wanted, but out of (albeit) grudging respect he allowed Fox to take the lead. Peppy was several paces behind him, his generous stomach puffing in and out for air as he pushed himself to keep running. Unlike Falco, he and Slippy didn't have the practice of spending copious amounts of time in the Great Fox's 'Weight room'. Corneria's gravity was making their impromptu dashes to their Arwings a cumbersome burden, but he wasn't about to let himself fall behind. Slippy brought up the group's rear, his flat feet slapping the gravel as quickly as he could make them. The toad was too busy running to care that he was last in the group's dash. He was always the slowest runner, and it was no secret among the group. In the end, the group was all he cared about, really. Fox McCloud, the group's leader and figurehead, had the lead. While not as fit as Falco, he was at least in better shape than the other two teammates, and was leading their ungainly charge to their Arwings with the papers their mercenaries' payment was printed on clutched tightly in one hand, like a schoolboy would an impromptu trophy.

Fox's over-jacket was open and flapping as he ran, his headset was in his other hand, and his eyes were riveted on his goal: the small group of expertly landed space-crafts huddled together some distance away. His teeth glinted faintly in anticipation of returning to the sky. The Star Fox team was a band of mercenaries, tied to no one, forever free. That was his father's legacy; Fox would not throw that away.

The group reached their Arwings, each one communicating separately with the Great Fox's auto pilot for coordinates to keep in mind. One by one, four Arwings took to the sky. Trails of vapor delicately traced the air where each Arwing's wingtip sliced through the air.

The four were airborne, though considering the very nature of their destination they wouldn't be soaring through the atmosphere for very long. Fox felt the humming in his bones shift delicately, and he knew without needing to check that the shuttle's wings were accommodating for the loss of atmospheric interference as they gained more and more altitude. Adjusting the controls—again, there was no difference to speak of between his paw-like hands and the Arwing's equipment—he eased the ship's vertical path until it was flying almost upside down (relative to the planet), with the thinning remains of atmosphere below him just barely hiding stars and endless depths. At a twist to the controls, the Arwing dipped, gyrated and swerved back to its original heading, Fox chuckling almost giddily as the g-forces tugged at him from all directions.

It was good to have stayed free.


End file.
